


Helpless

by codenamecynic



Series: The Swordmaster's Son [2]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Abuse, Cognitive Dissonance, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-06 06:56:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21222452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/codenamecynic/pseuds/codenamecynic
Summary: Taliesin never stops pushing and never backs down. Cort has no idea what to do about it.Takes place around year 13 of 'The Swordmaster's Son'.





	Helpless

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fionavar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fionavar/gifts), [bettydice (BettyKnight)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BettyKnight/gifts), [Dakoyone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dakoyone/gifts), [vhaerauning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vhaerauning/gifts).

> Exploring things from Cort's POV at the behest of our beloved DM. If you're following [The Swordmaster's Son](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15688893/chapters/36454428), this story is set in year 20, a specific reference to this events discussed in this scene: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15688893/chapters/39145033

If this was the first time, Cort might have been surprised. It’s not.

He knows what’s going to happen even before Taliesin throws the first punch. He should have stopped Gordri the minute the ham-fisted bully decided to amuse himself at Taliesin’s expense, or whatever it was he thought he was doing, drowning a litter of kittens. He isn’t even sure that Gordri knows himself, except that hurting things seems to come naturally and a hammer is just as useful for breaking bones as it is for building bridges, a tool regardless.

It all happens so fast. Cort’s too far away to make a move, his feet frozen to the ground, and his father, impassive and blank-faced as ever, stands still and silent next to him watching as Lord Dorhal Ferryman dismounts his horse and whips his son bloody.

Cort wants to look away but he doesn’t, curling his toes against the insides of his boots until his bones ache because he can’t even clench his fists, can’t even frown. People are watching. People are _always _watching.

It isn’t over quickly, and it’s all the more savage for it. Taliesin, the bloody little idiot, won’t just take it - he _never _just takes it - stumbling over and over to his feet, and then his knees, and then crumpled into a ball in the dirt, back rounded against the lash. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t plead for it to stop, just these little sounds when the leather connects that seem like they’ve been strangled out of him, high and sharp.

The crop breaks across Taliesin’s shoulder and Lord Ferryman sneers and throws it away, leaving it and his son on the ground like refuse for someone else to clean up. The sparse crowd disperses, the entertainment over. He feels like he’s going to be sick.

Cort doesn’t move until his father does, hard on his heels but still walking. The swordmaster doesn’t run for things that aren’t emergencies. 

Taliesin hasn’t risen and doesn’t as they draw near, head down with forehead resting in the dirt, both arms crossed across his stomach, holding himself like he’ll split apart at the seams. His breath is short and sharp like the noises from before, face splotched red and wet with tears, his eyes screwed shut. He doesn’t open them, not even when Cort’s father reaches down to pick him up, pulling him over one shoulder like a corpse. Cort trails behind him as they walk to the swordmaster’s quarters, reassuring himself with the way one of Taliesin’s hands clutches the back of his father’s shirt, clenched to a white-knuckled fist.

*

They lay Taliesin out face down across the little bed in the back, made up with just a sheet, and Cort fetches water while his father hunts down the bottle of strong-smelling astringent and a handful of bandages.

Taliesin whimpers once when the first strip is laid, fingers curling into the sheets until his knuckles go pale and bloodless, but quickly hushes when his father’s ministrations don’t cease, as if he knows it’s pointless. Instead he shivers mutely, the muscles in his thin arms flexing as he holds tight to the wet coverlet beneath him as the blood from his wounds is sluiced away and Cort’s father covers the angry rents in his flesh with the tincture-soaked gauze.

It stings, Cort knows, but Taliesin bears it in silence, his face deceptively neutral. His eyes are open, unfocused, fat tears sliding unchecked across the bridge of his nose until they disappear into the blanket beneath him, but he doesn’t make a sound. It strangles something in Cort’s own throat, choking him on the urge to vomit or scream.

He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t, and eventually his father stops, pulling himself up from the edge of the mattress with a creaking of knees and a sigh. He crosses wordlessly out of the room, drying his hands on the remains of the shirt they’ve cut from Taliesin’s back, and Cort follows him silently into the office, closing the door behind him.

“You have a question.”

“Why didn’t you stop him.”

It doesn’t sound so much like a question but a desperate accusation; he hears the edge of emotion in his voice and immediately tempers it, body shifting unconsciously to mirror his father’s stance, firm and planted.

Nial Raghnall looks at his son across the distance of the desk between them, more expressionless than usual. “Taliesin or his father?”

“Lord Ferryman.” He wants to hiss the title, spit it from his mouth like venom.

“Why didn’t _you?”_

He’s not expecting that, the burbling wrath in his chest suddenly falling still. He doesn’t have an answer that feels right. It wouldn’t have made a difference. It would have made it worse. Taliesin should have known better, should have picked a better moment, shouldn’t have cared at all.

He clasps his hands behind his back, tight and wringing, unable to answer as his father moves to face him, man to man.

“That’s not what we do.”

“What do we do, then?”

“We serve. And we remember our place.”

It sounds like a threat, but when he lifts his eyes to his father’s face all he sees is weariness, no hint of sharp disapproval in the edges of his expression. He doesn’t know what it means. Less so when Nial lays a red vial down on the edge of his desk and crosses to the door.

“Have him drink it, and make him rest. He’ll scar if he doesn’t.”

And then he is alone with the cacophony of his thoughts, roaring like blood in his ears. He takes the vial and it is strangely hot in his hand. He can’t feel magic like some people can; maybe it’s just his own body going up in flames, so fruitlessly, pointlessly angry and dissatisfied.

But that’s not something he’s meant to need. Satisfaction is for people who want things, and that is not what they do either.

The hopelessness in that moment is overwhelming, and he puts the vial in his pocket lest he crush it in his grip. Then it would be as much use to Taliesin as he is.

He doesn’t make a practice of crying but the tears come anyway, gathering hot and hateful. He lets them well but not spill over, pressing the heels of his hands hard into his eyes, deep breaths until the hammering inside him stops and his vision is clear again. He does not have time for this self indulgence, pointless wallowing when there is work to be done.

Taliesin needs someone, and all he has is Cort.

He looks almost asleep when Cort reenters the room, too exhausted to do more than lie there. He stirs when Cort sits down at the end of the bed though, blearily lifting his head. Cort hesitates and then reaches out a hand to soothe him, fingers sliding over the frantic curl of Taliesin’s hair, smoothing it back.

Taliesin hesitates under the gentleness of the touch but quickly sighs and lays his head back down, letting Cort do as he likes. They stay that way for a long time, Taliesin’s hair soft and cool under Cort’s fingers, delicate in a way Cort has never been.

“You’re upset,” Taliesin ventures eventually, less a question than a muted bid for confirmation. “At me?”

_Yes._ “No.” Both are true.

Taliesin makes a humming sound deep in his throat, quietly acknowledging.

“I shouldn’t have. It was just kittens. I knew better.”

He shouldn’t say it, shouldn’t say _anything;_ it’s not his place, but the words come spilling out anyway, too honest. “It’s never just kittens, Taliesin.”

“No, I don’t suppose it is.”

His voice is tired, world-weary, ill-suited to the distressing smallness of him, and Cort’s fingers go still on the back of his neck, just above the highest strip of gauze that wraps over the deep gash in his shoulder. It’s tempting to let him fall asleep where he is, feels cruel to make him move, but his father’s words echo in the back of his mind. This will leave its marks, and he doubts Taliesin will thank him for them if he can lessen their effect and chooses not to.

“Sit up,” he prompts and Taliesin shifts sleepily under his fingers, needing help. They manage it between the two of them, slowly and careful, though Taliesin wavers again with his fingers around the vial, unsteady. Cort closes his hand over Taliesin’s to keep him from dropping it, and bites his tongue against the urge to wince when Taliesin looks up at him, gray eyes dull with more than just pain.

“Should I? It’s not so bad.”

“You’ll scar.”

“I already have scars.”

He does, and each one feels like a failure. “…drink the potion, Taliesin.”

Eventually Taliesin tips his head at the command, acquiescent, and drains the vial. Cort watches him swallow painfully, taking the empty glass from him before it can fall from nerveless fingers and shatter on the floor. 

“S'gross,” he complains, words slurring, and Cort frowns.

“The least of your problems I’m sure,” he says tartly and Taliesin gives a little laugh that comes out more like a wheeze, and doesn’t argue. Cort relents, too quickly like always, and allows it when Taliesin drops his head onto his shoulder, leaning against his arm.

It’s no good to hold him, the mess of his back won’t permit it, and he’s not sure he should anyway. He doesn’t want to encourage this, even if he doesn’t really think that Taliesin was wrong. In starting the fight, anyway. Cort’s not sure about the rest of it. It’s dangerous, clear and present, and no one will miss an unruly fourth son, especially one who won’t buckle under authority and toe the line.

Taliesin’s young, there’s still time to learn, but Cort isn’t sure he wants that for him. Isn’t sure whether or not that makes him a traitor, or who in this situation most requires his loyalty.

As if he could choose.

“Lie down.” The words come out harsh, much more harshly than he means them to, but it only stirs Taliesin a little.

“Mmm?”

“I said lie down, Taliesin. You need to rest so the potion will work.”

“Okay, okay,” he capitulates, almost drunken, and again between the two of them they get him horizontal, spread out over soiled sheets on his stomach. Cort checks his bandages once he’s settled, smoothing them over tender skin so they lie flat over each wound. He tries to be gentle, but if he isn’t Taliesin doesn’t say.

He does reach for him when Cort makes to get up though, a clumsy finger hooking into his pocket. “Don’t go.”

“Taliesin-”

“Stay. Please?” He murmurs, both pleading and bargaining so pridelessly. “Just ‘til I fall asleep.”

Such a child and still, fool he is, Cort can’t say no. He settles down again, bed dipping cautiously beneath his weight, and Taliesin closes his eyes, long thin fingers curled to clutch at the loose fabric of the leg of Cort’s pants. Such a desperately small thing, a sad little gesture like that’s comforting enough and he’ll make do, and as his breathing calms and deepens Cort fights to control the way his own wants to thunder out of him like clattering stones down a mountainside. He doesn’t even dare to touch him as he had before, does nothing at all, sitting still and silent with hands clenched into fists on his thighs until he’s sure Taliesin is asleep.


End file.
